


A Lapse in Duplication

by d__T



Series: Indigo North [10]
Category: Mad Max 1979, Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Murder, also porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:00:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d__T/pseuds/d__T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to having multiple versions of the same character, I ended up with an aged and battle weary Indigo in the Fury Road universe. A much younger and more vicious Indigo encounters him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Campfire

Indigo finds the man just as he’s making camp. He’s got no traveling companion, no friend, no dog, but Indigo’s traveling alone too. Each to their own out here.

So while the man suspiciously watches him from across the campfire, he pull the bike in across from the truck. The suspicion eases when he shows his hands empty, says “I’m unarmed” even through they both know that’s a lie, betrayed by his war paint and the knife strapped to his thigh.

Selecting food from his pack, he squats by the fire in the lengthening evening while the sharp eyes of the man sitting on the tailgate of his truck watch. As Indigo eats, he realizes how  _old_  the man must be, his black hair threaded with silver, tanned-dark face lined and scarred, truck once blue and now pockmarked and welded, gnarled fingers endlessly idly fiddling with a lighter-  _flip snap flame pop click flip..._

_I want that lighter._

But the stranger's eyes, more than just reflected fire flickers in them. So he holds his hands out to the fire, looks through the fingers and flames at the older man only to see his own blue and liquid gold aura, now cracked like ancient pottery and packed with ash.

“What’s your name?”

“Indigo.”

“Hmph.”

His face betrays nothing when they share a name. Food finished, he packs the container away, instead pulling for his sleeping mat. He unrolls it just on the fire side of the kickstand of his bike and after slinging his mask over the handlebar, he lies down. The old man   _full life_  is still sliding the lighter through his fingers and nowIndigo sees that he’s missing three fingertips. Amputated so long ago that the stubs are calloused indistinguishably from the rest of his hands.

He’s  _waiting_ , Indigo realizes as his eyes close. Looking through closed eyes at the aura, the pattern of the cracks sprawls across his tongue and palms, coalescing on his right in an unalienable absence of presence. He’s waiting for someone gone so long he doesn’t know it anymore.

Well asleep long before the stranger moves to put the fire out and sleep himself, Indigo wakes to a weak moonlight. The man seems to be gone until he walks to the truck and peers into the bed. The man  _Indigo_  is asleep in a ratnest of blankets, lighter slipped loosely between fingers at his chin.

Palms itching, fingers tingling, he reaches out through the faintest brush of warm breath on his fingers and slides the lighter into his own hand. Instantly, the just sleeping man’s eyes snap open, a spray of liquid gold searing across his mind. He stumbles back, lighter clutched tightly as the older man leaps from the edge of the truck, a flying tackles that slams them both to the ground. Teeth at his throat, he slams his fist into the man’s head.

They’re freakishly evenly matched, right up until Indigo knees him in the balls and garrotes him with his own dogtag chain until he stops moving.

He runs his thumb over the engraved surface of the lighter, seeing it as much with his eyes as with his finger. Slowly he reads off ‘Though our souls burn, the fire purifies our sin and redemption alike.” There is a star with wings below the text. Crouching over the downed man, he pulls the dogtags free to read them as well. One hexagonal, one round, they read “Indigo North A980457353 1653498″. He lets the tags fall from his fingers; they are of no interest to him when he can feel the lighter burning a spiritual hole in his pocket.

Indigo leaves the other Indigo in the dirt and rides off into the night, prize tingling in his pocket and mind. He feels  _good,_ good all over.


	2. Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Indigo riding his murder-high.
> 
> literally just porn

V8, but he feels good. He’s won his fight, taken his prize, and his bike is strong between his thighs. The wind whistles through his mask and he’s so viscerally aware, burning through the night like this that he can feel the war paint on his skin like ghost armor. He can feel his cock in his pants, too. Not soft but not hard, not demanding, just warm and chubby and nice feeling. He could choose not to, and all would be the same, but he drops a hand to gently press and stroke against the bulge, posture shifting on the bike to to press closer to the vibrations. The cold night air sears on the inhale, red lenses and blue aura spatters making black-purple spots in the weak moonlight. Feels  _good_  and he grips his cock tighter through his pants as it grows under his hand and presses hot along his leg. The slightest sound escapes his lips and he know he has to stop the bike but. One more squeeze brings that tiny sound again to his lips and he abruptly brings the bike to a halt, skidding in the sand. Quickly he dismounts and seconds later his gloves and mask are off and his pants are unbelted and unzipped. Ass against the tail of the bike, bracing himself, he takes his cock in hand and fingers it out to its full length. Face to the sky, mouth open in a silent moan, he strokes himself,  _long slow smooth_ , drawing it out deliciously.

He moans, unable to take his own teasing anymore. Hand and breathing both pick up as he moves faster, chasing the edge. His prized hangs heavy in his pocket, occasionally thumping against his leg with the motion of his hand, a warm weight that pushes him higher with victory as his other hand brushes across it. Oh  _yes_

He comes in a long spurt across the sand, moan caught high in his throat, body tensed and slowly relaxing.

Eyes still closed, he licks his hand clean and tucks his cock away before prying his eyes open again, aftershocks still flickering across his vision. He slips his mask down over his face again and takes off into the night again, the rumble of his bike on the edge of overstimulation. maybe he’ll stop again, maybe he won’t. That decision is too far away to be decided now.


End file.
